I turned the pieces over, staring at the numbers, at the jagged tear cutting through my father’s name. The pieces shook in my hands. He hadn’t taken the money. He could have—god knew he needed it—but he didn’t.
I lay down beside him on the mattress, staring at him, asleep and bruised but still impossible to look away from. I was drawn by his steadiness, though not in the way people usually meant. Scott’s power came from the way he refused to stay broken, from the stubborn strength that clung to him even in sleep. He knew who he was. I wished I could say the same. I had roots in two worlds and a home in neither. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. But somewhere between the boarding gate and the ER, the old version of me had ceased to exist.
There was no going back after this. I’d defended them,telling myself they were acting out of love or misguided protection. But the bruises on Scott’s skin were the proof of what their love really looked like, and I now understood exactly who they were.
A wave of nausea rolled through me. I pressed my palms to my eyes until the spinning stopped. When I looked up again, Scott stirred, wincing, and I reached out, smoothing a strand of hair back from his forehead.
“I’ll never let them touch you again,” I whispered.
It wasn’t a promise I knew how to keep. But it was the only one that mattered.
20
SCOTT: TAKE ON ME
The smell of something burning yanked me out of a half-nap on the couch. I sat up, my ribs protesting, and squinted toward the kitchenette. Michelle was standing in front of the plug-in electric stove, a cloud of steam rising around her. With her hair tied back and her tongue just peeking out, she looked determined, if completely out of her element.
“Everything okay in there?” I called.
“As long as you like your chicken extra crispy, then yes, it’s wonderful,” she said, frowning at the pan.
I grinned and eased back onto the cushion. It had been ten days since the beating. The swelling was down, though every laugh, cough, or sudden movement still felt like getting sucker-punched by her father’s enforcer.
“Cool. Didn’t know we were doing the ‘house fire’ special again tonight.”
“Every night unless you want to trade places.”
I grabbed my stomach and groaned. “I would, but your dad beat the shit out of me.”
She glanced over, her cheeks pink from the heat and a strand of hair stuck to her forehead.
“How long are you going to hold that over my head?”
“As long as I’m still pissing blood.”
Michelle went back to burning the chicken. Hard to believe the girl who used to sip champagne at yacht club brunches was now standing in my peeling-linoleum kitchen, wearing one of my T-shirts and looking happier than I’d ever seen her. She’d sort of just moved in after I got home from the hospital. Maybe at first it was guilt, but it didn’t feel like that anymore. We’d fallen into an easy rhythm, talking for hours about nothing and everything. If I hadn’t known her before this week, I did now. And I loved her more every day. Since my mom died, no one had taken care of me like that. Not because they had to. Because they wanted to. It wasn’t about needing help. It was about wanting it from her. For the rest of my life.
And with her here, the apartment even looked almost respectable. There were flowers in an empty beer bottle on the table. She’d scrubbed the counter, organized the drawers, and brought little bits of order to my disarray. I hadn’t realized how deprived I’d been until Michelle started filling the place with unnecessary luxuries like colorful towels, shaggy rugs, and even a goddamn dish rack. I didn’t need any of it, but I liked the way she said we did.
Michelle had bought the flowers, the luxury items, and the chicken she was currently burning all back when her credit card still worked. It didn’t anymore. She’d found that out while filling the Shaggin’ Wagon with gas. Now the only thing she had left from that life of hers was her carry-on, currently lying open in the corner, the scent of fancy lotion drifting through the room. I couldn’t help worrying that when the lotion ran out, so would my luck.
“Dinner will be ready in…” She glanced over her shoulder with a sheepish grin. “I have no idea.”
“Take your time,” I said. “I love watching you try.”
“Any sign of Zonk?” Michelle asked.
I shook my head, trying to keep it casual. All week I’d been downplaying his absence. Zonk had disappeared before and always found his way back to his stash of licorice. But this time was different. This time he wasn’t coming back. After Michelle told me about the blood in the wall, I’d had a bad feeling. When she left for groceries, I checked the back of the garage where his wall path opened to the outside. That was where I found him—dead in the grass.
I stood there for a long moment, not ready to say goodbye. At that point, it had only been two days since the beating, my ribs still screaming, but I grabbed a shovel anyway and dug a shallow grave behind the garage. I laid him down with the last Red Vine from my pocket. Wild things don’t get funerals. But Zonk had been mine, and I couldn’t leave him for the crows.
“Zonk’s fine,” I lied, wincing. She already felt bad enough. Maybe someday I’d tell her. But not today. “He probably caught a whiff of your perfume and figured the rent went up.”
“I’m serious, Scott. What if he was injured when…?”
“Come here,” I cut her off.
Michelle took the chicken off the heat and walked over. I wrapped my arms around her waist, resting my head against her stomach. “He’s fine. He’s gone missing before.”
